COLUMN: Bone

I was done.

After 30 years of spending most weekends behind the DJ decks at clubs and parties, I told myself it was officially time to retire from my longtime side gig. Then I got a call from my pal Bone.

I've known Chris Bone for years. If you worked in the QC entertainment industry, you couldn't NOT know Bone. Maybe he carded you when he worked as a bouncer. Maybe he booked you when he managed bars. Maybe you knew him from his on-air radio alter-ego, Chris Michaels. Bone was one of those guys you ran into all over the place.

That day, he was calling with a plea. He'd found financial backing and was about to fulfill his life-long dream of opening a country bar in Rock Island. "I need you in that DJ booth, man."

"Sorry, man," I quickly replied. "I'm out of the game. And I'm not a country DJ, you know that."

"I don't want a country DJ," he said. "I want YOU. Play a few country songs after the band gets done, then do what you do. Play whatever it takes to get college kids in the door. We'll be a country bar early and a party bar late." 

I tried to give him names of other DJs to try, but he was relentless. "You're the only one I trust. Say yes."

After a half-dozen phone calls, I relented and told him I'd help out for a couple weeks. Those weeks turned into months, and those months turned into a year. In that time, the hard-working staff at Billy Bob's Redneck Party Bar became more like a second family -- and together endured every curve fate could possibly throw at that poor joint. We presevered through heatwaves, snowstorms, band cancellations, street violence, and even COVID. Sadly, no hard work could overcome the city council's decision to shutter Rock Island District bars an hour early, and it wasn't long before Billy Bob's held its last rodeo.

Bone lost his bar, but not his entrepreneurial spirit. Last week, he was set to announce his new venture as a solar energy provider in the Quad Cities. But Chris never showed to that final meeting. When they sent someone to his house to check on him, they found him gone. His ridiculously big heart gave out at the unfathomable age of 43. It's everyone's loss.

In a 33-1/3rd world, Chris Bone lived at 45 rpm -- never slowing down, never compromising. I remember one night leaving Billy Bob's utterly exhausted around 4 a.m. "Get some sleep, dude," I said on my way out the door. 

"Yeah, I probably should," he replied.

I went home and crashed out. I woke up hours later to phone calls telling me to turn on the TV. There, on ESPN, was Chris playing bags live on College Gameday. Turns out he had left Billy Bob's and drove straight to Kinnick Stadium to not miss a second of Hawkeye football. Hours after THAT, he was posting to Facebook from the floor of a poker tournament in Vegas. That's just how he rolled.

Bone could be a real pain sometimes. There's nothing he liked better than stirring the pot. If he thought you did him wrong, he had no reservations airing that laundry on Facebook for all to see. We rarely saw eye-to-eye and bickered over politics constantly. One of his friends said it best: If heaven has social media, Bone's probably up there now tring to somehow blame Joe Biden for his death. But you always knew to take every word he said with a laugh, because even he didn't even take himself seriously. 

Behind the bravado, though, lived one of the most compassionate dudes I've ever known. The guy who would sneak into hospitals to see friends after visiting hours. The guy who'd risk his health to bring food to COVID-quarantined friends. The guy who'd leave a party early to play euchre with his senior-citizen neighbors. The guy who found a pregnant cat and adopted her AND all the kittens because he couldn't bear to separate a family. The guy who came running anytime you were having a crisis.

Chris Bone taught me life should be lived, and that's why I didn't stop DJing even after Billy Bob's closed. At my gig last weekend, Bone and his wife showed up unannounced. He rolled up with just a smile and a fist-bump because he knew I was busy and stressed out. But even just a reassuring head nod was enough to boost my confidence.

The day he passed, I discovered a text I'd overlooked from the weekend. He sent it at 7:50 a.m. on Sunday morning, just hours after he'd stopped by the club. "Your mixes last night were fire. You make it seem so easy, but it was flawless, man. Right crowd, right songs. The wife loved it. I loved it. You're the man." Those are the last words I'll ever hear from him.

Always encouraging. Loyal to a fault. A true friend. A goofy, lumpy force of nature. Give heaven some hell, Bone.     

COLUMN: Evil Squirrels

This week, a public service announcement confirmed what I've been saying for years: SQUIRRELS ARE EVIL.

Don't believe me? Ask the National Park Service. They're the ones who issued a warning on "Squirrel Safety" this week. In it, they confirm that squirrel bites are one of the most common injuries at our nation's National Parks.

"Awww, but they're so cute," you say. Cute monsters, maybe. Raccoons are cute, too, but they'd eat your face clean off if given the chance. I'm telling you, squirrels are tiny little cute and fluffy demons THAT HAVE PLAGUED OUR FRAGILE EARTH FOR FAR TOO LONG. But what do I know? I'm merely the landlord of a massive squirrel-led agricultural production and processing facility. 

In other words, I have a walnut tree in my back yard.

Technically, it's not even MY tree. The trunk of said tree actually sits just over my neighbor's property line, But I'd guesstimate 80% of its branches and walnuts hover over MY yard. Every year, our tree is diligently farmed by a pack of hard-working, cute-as-a-button, exceptionally mean squirrels who hate me to no end. 

I've never been a big fan of the walnut tree. Every year, I've had to listen as walnuts fall off the tree and onto my roof, where they rollllllll loudly all the way down to the ground. My house is a giant pachinko machine. Last year, I reached my limit and finally paid a guy to cut back the branches that overhung my roof. At last, some peace and quiet

Or so I thought.

Last week, I was sitting in my living room when I heard the all-too-familiar thud/rolllllll/splat. What gives? Branches don't re-grow THAT fast, do they? Was this a rogue sky walnut falling from heaven? A few minutes later, I heard it AGAIN and had to step outside to see what was going on. I should've known.

As I stood there, one of my squirrely friends hustled up the tree and shook loose a walnut to the ground. Since it was less than ripe, it stayed mostly intact. That's when I watched the squirrel chomp down on the walnut, run it all the way around to the other side of the house, climb my OTHER tree, jump onto my roof, and with great purpose drop it so it would roll down the roof and onto the concrete below, where it finally broke open. Don't tell me squirrels aren't smart. It turns out my house isn't a giant pachinko machine -- it's a giant nutcracker.

If the roof method doesn't work, then it's off to the rendering plant, aka my back steps. For half the year, my steps are routinely covered in the detritus ofshattered walnut husks, as the squirrels take them up there and bang them against the rails until they can get to the treasure within. If I dare attempt to leave for work in the midst of the process, the squirrels will scamper off to the tree and climb to eye level, where they'll hang there issuing angry little "thpf! thk!" complaints until I'm safely away.

A few years ago, I interrupted a squirrel in mid-nutcrack, and he scampered up the tree, climbed onto the branch directly above me, and... peed on my head. Squirrels are the worst.

Today, though, was a new level of strange. I opened my back door, and lo, what greeted me on my back steps? An entirely whole, and entirely moldy, Big Mac. Two all-beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions on a moldy-gross bun. And yes, I nearly slipped on it and almost took a full header down the steps. 

I wondered what had left such a disgusting treasure. Perhaps one of the feral cats I feed like a chump? Maybe one of those face-eating raccoons? No, a quick check of the security cameras proved it was brought to my door by two squirrels working in tandem with great intent. Perhaps it was their offering as long-overdue rent. My guess is they were HOPING I'd slip on it and take a header. Then 81 of those murderous little burger-eating monsters would probably work in tandem to drag my body off to whereever they keep all those walnuts.

Squirrels might be cute, but at what cost? THE CARTOONS LIE, PEOPLE. I don't remember Chip or Dale ever peeing on anyone's head. Alvin, Simon, and Theodore never plotted any burger-related murders. WHEN WILL THE MADNESS END? My guess is first frost.

COLUMN: Music Preferences

If there's one thing I'm always good and finding, it's new and interesting ways to kill time on the internet. So when I ran into an online story with the header, "Musical Preferences Unite Personalities Across the Globe," it caught my eye.

It turns out there's a new study recently published by the University of Cambridge that finds a definitive link between a person's music preferences and their personality type. More to the point, this link appears universal across many different cultures.

For example, Ed Sheeran's song "Shivers" is just as likely to appeal to extroverts living in the UK as those who live in Argentina or India. Americans with self-defined neurotic traits gravitate to Nirvana's "Smells Like Teen Spirit" just as frequently as neurotic personalities in South Africa or Denmark. Agreeable people all over the world seem to like Marvin Gaye's "What's Going On." Conscientious people all over the world hate Rage Against the Machine.

Without much variation, the researchers found positive correlations between extroverts and contemporary music, conscientiousness and unpretentious music, agreeableness and mellow music, and between openness and intense music. 

Fascinating. And, also, DUH.

No offense to the hard-working researchers at the University of Cambridge, but you could learn as much from spending an hour hanging out at Co-Op Records in Moline. It doesnt seem like much of a newsflash to me that conscientious people don't often rage against machines. And what exactly defines "unpretentious music" anyways? (Theory: perhaps a banjo.)

I'm still trying to wrap my head around the point of this study. I guess it proves different cultures can maybe find common musical ground, but only if you're hanging out with like-minded people in those different cultures. I'm not quite sure what they were expecting to find. Did they think there's a magical foreign land where conscientious folks all sit around listening to death metal while neurotics prefer smooth jazz? Personally, I'm pretty sure smooth jazz CAUSES neurosis (make me listen to Kenny G. and I promise I'll be neurotic by nightfall.)

Supposedly these are the most widely accepted traits today for classifying personalities, but I don't consider myself to be especially extroverted, conscientious, agreeable, stable, OR open. Maybe that's why my list of favorite bands tends to be met by blank stares from anyone who's not a complete weirdo.

I was curious, though, so I followed the link that allows you to replicate the study in the privacy of your home. The website plays snippets of 25 songs, and you have to choose whether you extremely, very much, moderately, or slightly like or dislike each song clip.

Spoiler alert: I disliked all 25 of them -- a lot. Some were classical, and that's just not my bag. Others sounded like bad Nickelback knock-offs. One was just a laughably corny guitar solo. Another was a country song with the lyric, "somebody shot my neighbor today." There was a clip that sounded like the demo on a Casio keyboard. Another was a bland beat with someone yelling "ungh!" over it like your uncle doing James Brown karaoke. They were all dreadful.

Needless to say, the survey didn't reveal much about me. My preference for "contemporary" music was highest of all, likely because I only "moderately hated" those, as opposed to everything else which I "very much hated." Clearly, this survey needs to include one more personality trait: "snobby elitist dork who used to work at a record store and now thinks everything sucks except some band that only seven people in the world have ever heard of."

Maybe you can define someone's personality by their musical taste, but there's sure exceptions to the rule. One of my friends is very much an agreeable conscientious introvert. He also listens to nothing but Black Sabbath and 70s prog rock -- explain THAT, Cambridge. I own a lot of pretentious Radiohead records, but I also own just as many records by Lisa Lisa & Cult Jam. Musical tastes can be unique as snowflakes, and that's a GOOD thing in my book.

One thing about this study, though, is a success: It certainly helped me kill time on the internet. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go listen to some mellow contemporary music because I'm so gosh-darn agreeable.

COLUMN: Rooster

Well, it's official -- I played chicken with karma, and I lost.

Long-time readers may remember the great Chickengate scandal of 2016. That's when the Rock Island city council held a vote on whether or not to allow urban backyard chicken-keeping within city limits. And that's when I decided to write a column about it. Spoiler alert: it was not especially PRO-chicken.

Truth be told, I have ZERO vested interest in the debate. I honestly couldn't tell you if I give a rat's behind about urban chickens, because I've never been around an urban chicken in my life (or a rat, for that matter.) I wrote the column mostly to make fun of my disdain for nature and propensity to be allergic to my own shadow. But I stand by my reasoning. Chickens are messy and not the friendliest of fowl, and taking care of them is a big responsibility. If you're really into raising chickens and keep a well-maintained operation, I'm cool with it. But if you've got a messy, stinky coop in your backyard just because urban chicken-keeping is trendy and cool, I'm not a fan.

So I wrote a light-hearted column back in 2016 that took some admittedly cheap jabs at the eco-friendly, chicken-loving hipster stereotypes. Suffice it to say some feathers got ruffled. Letters were written. Angry pro-chickeneers visited our lobby. My car got egged. I came home to a pile of chicken poop lovingly placed on my back steps. Clearly, the local backyard chicken mafia are not to be toyed with.

I tried to make amends. I wrote a mea culpa the following week, and even accepted an offer from a local chicken owner to come meet her hens, Lila and Lola. Did they stare at me with murder in their eyes? Nah, they didn't seem to acknowledge my existence. Were they stinky? Nope. Were they mean? I didn't exactly go in for a friendly hug, but I didn't see any trails of blood or noticeable scarring on their owners, so I wasn't especially horrified.

I'm still not a huge fan of chickens that haven't already been shaked and/or baked, but there's no further need to egg my house, promise. I learned my lesson. Besides, the resolution passed, and folks in Rock Island have been able to keep chickens in their backyards since 2016. Other than Lila and Lola, I've yet to spot a single feather. I've not been attacked by any runaway poultry hellbent on vengeful bloodlust. I haven't had to adjust my daily Claritin intake. It's pretty much been a non-issue.

Until this week.

In a perfect karmic twist of fate, my neighbors now have chickens. I learned this delightful fact four days ago at precisely 5:14 a.m. when I woke up instinctively DUCKING, assuming based on the noise that pterodactyls were circling overhead. Nope, just a rooster. I'm not even sure which house he belongs to. I've yet to see him, but he's definitely made his presence known. A crowing rooster really has a magical way of cutting through walls, time, and space.

I'm not the only one bothered. Every time it lets loose its morning song, my cats freeze in place and stand there, mouths hanging open like they've been lulled into rooster hypnosis. 

Finally, my neighborhood has a noise MORE annoying than my security sensor. My outdoor cameras emit a shrill beep any time they sense an intruder on the property. Trouble is, a stiff breeze can sometimes be enough to set them off. I'm sure the neighbors already hate me a little. But NOW, whenever that sensor beeps, it makes the rooster crow. This can't end well.

I'm fully aware that I deserve this. I dissed chickens in print -- plus, as a weekend DJ, I've surely annoyed a fair share of people with loud music over the years. This is all karmic justice. I SHOULD be able to accept my fate and live in peace with my new feathery neighborhood alarm clock. 

Say, here's a random fun fact: Did you know that in the state of Illinois, with the correct permit, you can also keep FOXES as pets? And as a completely unrelated follow-up question, does anyone happen to know who the WORST fence-builders in Rock Island are and how I might be able to reach them? Asking for a friend.